


Lucky that You're Mine

by venis_envy



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Derek isn't as oblivious as Stiles thinks, Established fuck buddies relationship, Feels, Fluff, Kissing, M/M, Passing Mention of MotW: Swamp Hag, Stiles Takes Care Of Derek, Stiles secretly hearts Derek, Touching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-02
Updated: 2014-04-02
Packaged: 2018-01-17 21:03:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1402381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/venis_envy/pseuds/venis_envy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles has started to accumulate a few things Derek might need when he stays over; an extra toothbrush Stiles hasn't dared to take out of the bathroom drawer, the kind of coffee creamer Derek will never admit to liking in the kitchen cupboard, a spare shirt and some sweatpants he left when he stayed the night a few weeks ago that are now folded in Stiles’ top drawer.</p><p>He won’t tell Derek any of those things. </p><p>Or: The One With Stiles giving Woof!Derek a bath.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lucky that You're Mine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sapphirescribe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sapphirescribe/gifts).



> So, Sapphirescribe and I were watching TV the other day, and a commercial came on. I have no idea what it was for/about, but there was the briefest glimpse of a guy in a bubbly bathtub with his dog. So I used that as inspiration.
> 
> And because sapph is silly and I'm slightly insane, the title of this fic is taken from Ernie's classic Rubber Duckie song.

“Oh, god," Stiles says, burying his nose in the crook of his arm. "Yeah. You smell like dead hobo ass." He gags and wretches as he pushes the front door open.

Derek pads into the house behind him, still in full wolf form, panting with his tongue out and acting as if the swamp sludge dripping from his fur is nothing at all.

"My dad's gonna kill us both." Stiles sighs, shoulders slumping in defeat. "All right. Wait right here."

Stiles makes his way into the downstairs bathroom. He pulls a few towels out of the cupboard and tosses them down in the hall. There should be time to do a load of laundry before his dad gets home, and towels are far easier to clean than carpet.

"Okay, come on. Keep it on the runway, buddy," he tells Derek.

Stiles doesn't blame him for not shifting back yet. Derek always seems to heal a little faster when fully shifted, and after wrestling a swamp hag into submission on her own turf, he'd sustained a few minor cuts and chew marks. He seems to be fine now, other than the horrid aroma permeating the air around him, and Stiles wouldn't want to face that with a human nose either, if he didn't absolutely have to.

Stiles turns the water on, tests the temperature, then starts rummaging through the cupboard again.

He pulls out a bottle of shampoo he'd bought for when Derek stays over. It’s Derek’s usual brand, so it smells just like him. Stiles doesn’t like to mess with the balance of carefully concocted Derek Fragrance.

He's never done that before—made any obvious gestures or attempts at domesticating Derek Hale—but they've been messing around for nearly 7 months now, so Stiles has started to accumulate a few things Derek might need when he stays over; an extra toothbrush Stiles hasn't dared to take out of the bathroom drawer, the kind of coffee creamer Derek will never admit to liking in the kitchen cupboard, a spare shirt and some sweatpants he left when he stayed the night a few weeks ago that are now folded in Stiles’ top drawer. He won’t tell Derek any of those things.

Stiles tries to convince himself they’re only fucking around, that nothing more will ever come of it, but at some point, it seems his subconscious began to disagree and start to work against him and his sense of self-preservation.

He side-eyes Derek when he sets the shampoo on the edge of the tub, wondering if he’ll notice or if there’s already too much on his mind today. Derek sits on the bathmat and just watches him, head cocked slightly as if waiting for Stiles to say something. Stiles just smiles at him.

He pulls his shirt off and tosses it on the floor, grabs the removable shower head and sits back on the edge of the tub.

“Ready for this?” he asks.

Derek stands and walks over to him, and Stiles scratches behind his ear. He’ll complain about that later, he always does, but Stiles just can’t help it sometimes.

“Get in,” he says, gesturing toward the tub.

Derek hesitates for a second, then hops over the edge.

“It’s necessary, trust me. You smell rancid.”

Stiles slides down from the edge of the tub, sitting on his knees to better reach without twisting. He flips on the shower head and starts to hose Derek down. When the most extreme layer of the muck is rinsed off and well on its way down the drain, Stiles pops open the shampoo. He glances nervously at Derek before squeezing some out into his hand.

If Derek didn’t recognize the bottle before, he’ll for _sure_ notice the scent now. Stiles swallows down his embarrassment, hopes that he isn’t blushing despite the heat he feels in his cheeks, and tries to just focus on lathering up the wolf in his bathtub.

Stiles scritches his fingers through the dark fur, working up an all-over lather before hosing all the bubbles off. Derek doesn’t wait for Stiles to finish before standing in the tub and shaking himself off, sending foam and water flying all over the walls and mirror, and, of course, Stiles.

“ _That_ never gets old,” Stiles says, grabbing up his shirt to wipe the soap bubbles from his face. He tosses it over his shoulder and blinks his eyes open carefully.

Derek is sitting there in the tub, shifted back to human now, his knees drawn up and arms wrapped loosely around them. He’s staring straight ahead at the shiny steel faucet.

Stiles wants to ask him if he’s feeling better, if anything still hurts, but Derek appears to be lost in thought for the time being, so he plugs the tub and grabs a washcloth instead. He soaps it up generously and starts to wash Derek’s back. Stiles is pretty sure he’s clean enough now to not be able to smell the muck from the swamp, but he keeps washing him anyway, more for comfort and reassurance. There are flecks of dried blood just behind Derek’s ear, so he wipes that away, too.

“I’m gonna re-wash your hair,” he tells Derek. “Now that there’s less of it, I think I can do a better job.”

Derek nods, his eyes shifting around a little, but still not looking at Stiles.

“You okay?” Stiles asks.

Derek nods again, more assuredly.

“No permanent damage to worry about? No need to call Melissa or Deaton?”

“I’m fine,” Derek responds.

That’s good enough for Stiles, so he pours another palmful of the shampoo and starts to work it into Derek’s hair.

Derek tilts his head back and closes his eyes, distracting Stiles momentarily with the sharp line of his stubbled jaw. Stiles drags his thumb down the edge of it, soaping Derek’s cheek with the rich lather of shampoo. He laughs at the sight of it before rinsing it off and sliding his fingers back up into Derek’s hair.

Derek’s expression is entirely unchanged, relaxed and content as Stiles drags his fingers through the soft strands of Derek’s hair. He flips the showerhead back on and uses it to rinse the soap out.

Derek’s head is still tilted back, and the urge to kiss his neck is just too damn strong for Stiles to resist. He leans in and presses an open-mouthed kiss right below Derek’s ear, to the spot he’d just washed blood from.

“Much better,” he says.

Stiles sits back on his heels, grabs up the washcloth again and drags it across Derek’s chest, over his shoulder and down his arm. He washes between Derek’s fingers where they’re laced together around his knees, washes down one leg and back up the other. Silence fills the room as Stiles continues to clean Derek, and Derek doesn’t move; just sits there in the shallow water with his eyes closed as if he’s almost asleep.

It isn’t often they do this—never, in fact. They’ve showered together before, which is always more like fucking with the water on, and Stiles has washed Derek while he’s still in full wolf form like one would wash their pet (if the pet was able to bitch about that analogy later), but as a human, like this, so intimately…

Stiles takes full advantage of the opportunity to explore Derek’s body. He may have the excuse of a washcloth in his hand, but that doesn’t impair his ability to feel the hard lines and angles of Derek underneath. He doesn’t miss a single spot, even when he has to lean into the tub with one hand braced against the tiled wall to reach Derek’s other side. Stiles doesn’t want to disturb the peace of the moment by telling him to adjust his position. He doesn’t want to draw attention to the fact that Derek is probably already cleaner than he has been in a year and Stiles just can’t stop _touching_ him.

“Stiles,” Derek says eventually, when the quiet is almost as heavy as the steam.

Stiles looks up into green-gold eyes that are shimmering and bright as if Derek is smiling even if the curve of his mouth doesn’t agree.

“That isn’t your shampoo,” he says, and Stiles feels the heat rise in his cheeks again.

He looks away quickly, mind flipping through dozens of possible excuses but unable to settle on one.

Derek grabs Stiles’ wrist before he has a chance to move away, tugs him forward and presses their mouths together. The kiss is oddly chaste, and Stiles doesn’t really know how to respond to that. He’s so used to rough and fast when they’re together, so used to need and desperation and just _taking_ from each other, that he doesn’t know what to do with this kind of gentleness.

His fingers slip in the soap on Derek’s bicep, washcloth dropping into the tub as Derek leans back and pulls Stiles in on top of him.

Later, Stiles will remember this as the time he found out just how stupidly uncomfortable wet jeans are against a raging hard on, but for now, all he knows is the feel of Derek beneath him; strong arms wrapped around his back, holding him close; the taste of Derek’s mouth as the kiss is deepened and their tongues slide together. All he knows is the steam in the bathroom fogging the air and Derek’s surprisingly gentle touch fogging his thoughts.

He has no idea exactly how long they spend in the bathtub, touching and kissing and splashing water up over the edge, or how they find the ambition to separate long enough to make their way into the bedroom. Stiles doesn’t remember how they managed to peel his wet jeans off, or how long it takes to accomplish that task. He knows everything in between, though; the heat of Derek’s body against his; words whispered into his skin; unhurried kisses that are more like exploration than accomplishment; Derek’s fingertips kneading into Stiles’ thighs as he swallows him down.

He knows the feeling of being relaxed and sated, on the edge of sleep as Derek slides Stiles’ dresser drawer open and pulls on his own sweats before climbing back into bed and curling around him.

He’ll remember the things Derek says into his hair as they drift off together, and Stiles will even remember at some point that he _doesn’t_ manage to get that load of laundry done before his dad comes home.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. If you liked it, please hit that little heart button. It makes me all giddy-happy when you do that.
> 
> I hope you're all following the [Teen Wolf Remix](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/teenwolfremix2014) collection here. Fics will be open for reading on 4/7, and we've got some awesome submissions in there, so you won't want to miss them.


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